


The Rarer The Pair, The More Fun The Affair

by LazyWriterGirl



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fire Emblem Femslash Week, Fire Emblem Femslash Week 2016, Prompt Fic, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriterGirl/pseuds/LazyWriterGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots written for Fire Emblem Femslash Week 2016.</p><p>As a bonus, most, if not all, of the pairings will be rarepairs, because I clearly hate myself.</p><p>And no, in case you were wondering, there will be no mention of "affairs" in the adultery sense of the word. I just wanted to be clever with rhyming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Armour, or, Watching Her Back

The port is absolutely _swarming_ with Valmese soldiers, but all Cordelia can see is the woman straight in front of her. Or, more specifically, the uncovered—and incredibly well-defined—back of the woman in front of her. Cordelia is astonished at just what passes for military standard in some parts of the world. Yes, it’s true that the uniform of the Ylissean forces has come under scrutiny—multiple times—due to the length of certain standard-issue skirts circulated throughout all regiments of the Pegasus Knights, but at least, for the most part, she and Sumia are covered; unlike the woman Robin had hastily partnered Cordelia with at the first sign of trouble in Port Ferox.

Cordelia turns a moment to glare at her dear friends. Robin is seated snugly at Sumia’s back, though their faces are currently focused on each other to the exclusion of all else; no doubt they are trading sweet nothings before the battle. As per usual. Cordelia heaves a sigh—not an envious one, really, not even when she sees Chrom and Maribelle sitting atop the newly appointed valkyrie’s pristine white horse—and shrugs the tension out of her shoulders.

It would be a shame to die today.

The redhead turns back to her own partner, willing the woman to keep her eyes on the enemy and nowhere near Cordelia. It isn’t that she doesn’t believe that the Rosannean wyvern rider is capable; she’s read enough to know how much mettle it takes to keep a wyvern under control; and it’s obvious just how powerful the woman is even without considering her mount. Thanks to the complete lack of coverage all across the woman’s back Cordelia can tell that her muscles seem to have their own muscles—but in a way that remains feminine and deceptively delicate.

The rational part of Cordelia’s brain suggests that perhaps there may just be some sort of cultural disconnect between what Ylissean fashion dictates as appropriate for the battlefield. Surely Rosanne’s generals wouldn’t have decided to just allow their knights to run about on battlefields without giving any thought to the safety of each and every soldier. After all, from the front the wyvern rider is perfectly presentable, but as Cordelia’s vision can attest…

 

What could possibly possess a sane warrior to ride into battle in such _indecent_ attire?

 

The muscles of the wyvern rider’s back seem to ripple in response— _because it would be a_ shame _to hide such a lovely physique_ —and Cordelia has to stifle a faint…noise. She isn’t quite sure what it is—only that it most certainly is _not_ a swoon, because what purpose would she have to swoon over this somewhat scantily-clad woman with such a beautiful b— _stop it, she’s turning around!_

“Excuse me, dear, but I believe your darling tactician just announced that we’re to lead the charge?” The woman’s voice is tinged with the somehow coquettish accent of Rosanne, which normally would only serve to remind Cordelia of the ever-so-smarmy Virion. Instead, all it does now is force a slight blush to Cordelia’s cheeks as she nudges her pegasus forward. In a passing thought, she thinks how strange it is to be staring down at a dark-maned pegasus; a side-effect of her mount’s exposure to her magic, according to Robin.

 

“My apologies,” Cordelia says as she adjusts, not for the first time, her hold on the tome at her belt. “Shall we?” A single nod is all it takes for the Rosannean woman’s wyvern to take to the air, and then Cordelia feels herself being pulled up into the skies, her own mount trailing behind the woman and her flowing hair.

The woman—Cherche, she reminds herself—is a natural fighter, as fierce as the mighty wyvern she rides. Even still, Cordelia finds herself giving more than she normally would to the battle. It certainly has nothing to do with keeping her pink-haired partner safe; Cherche would probably detest the implication, and Cordelia doesn’t mean to offend in her sentiment. It’s just that watching the woman fly straight into the path of a group of archers is maddening.

It’s all for the army’s sake, she tells herself as she knocks a bow knight off his horse with a well-timed lance thrust. Another bow knight, this one wielding what looks like a new steel bow, lines up a shot that would certainly hit Cherche square in the back. Cordelia’s Elthunder spell crackles through the air faster than his hand can pull back on the drawstring. There’s no time to react to Cherche’s nod of thanks as Cordelia catches sight of a young myrmidon. The enemy bears a Wyrmslayer in Cherche’s direction, a snarl on her pale lips, but Cordelia’s new lance buries itself in the woman’s stomach before anything can happen to the pink-haired wyvern rider.

When they manage to catch a brief moment’s respite, Cordelia can see that the front-most plate of Cherche’s armour is splattered with blood and gore, and Cordelia worries about her partner’s wellbeing. Her own armour isn’t as well padded as, say, Kellam’s, but it’s certainly sturdier than what Cherche has on. Cordelia’s resolve strengthens as she catches sight of a knight wielding a javelin. She watches him draws his arm back; if she doesn’t move now, Cherche will be—An unfamiliar giggle finds its way to her in spite of the din of battle, and Cordelia can’t help but smile. Cherche will be just fine without her, it seems.

 

She’d barely noticed the woman and her wyvern tearing through the air towards the knight. All she’d seen was the way his chest plates had given out under the crushing strength of Cherche’s hammer. As the wyvern rider takes to the air again, she flashes Cordelia a smile that says it all: she needn’t worry about a thing.

 

 

 

Still, the thought of watching an arrow glide through the strong sinew of Cherche’s unprotected back is strangely heart-wrenching.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Five swordsmen, three knights, and a fighter later, the battlefield is finally clear of enemies. Cordelia dismounts from her pegasus with a small grunt; her legs are stiffer than normal. So stiff, in fact, that she essentially falls out of the saddle.

Strong arms wrap around her waist before she hits the ground and Cordelia can feel something soft brush her cheeks. Hair. Lovely, rosy hair. “My, my, do be careful, dear.”

“Of course,” Cordelia says, extracting herself from Cherche’s hold with all the grace she can muster. “My apologies.”

“Oh, no need for that. I was simply coming over to thank you for partnering with me today. It would appear I was lacking, else you would not be so fatigued as to stumble off your mount.”

Cordelia smiles and nods and waits for the conversation to be over, mortifying as it is.

“I had the strangest feeling,” Cherche begins, running a smooth, slender finger over her lips in a questioning gesture, “almost as if you were…defending me.”

“It’s just that your armour—”

Cordelia tries to stop herself, but the damage is done and Cherche’s fine eyebrows are perked up in interest.

“Yes?”

“I…was worried for your safety, milady,” Cordelia says smoothly, hoping that she does not offend the fierce woman at her side. “While I can now see that you need not be worried over, I was concerned that you lacked protection and took it upon myself to ensure no harm befell you.”

Cherche seems to consider her quite seriously for a moment, eyes travelling languorously over Cordelia’s features; perhaps in an attempt to unsettle the redhead. The moment clears as quickly as it comes, however, and then, to Cordelia’s surprise, she laughs, placing a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. “Oh my, dear, you _are_ rather precious!”

“Milady?”

“Now, now, none of that. I’m sure your family is of higher status than mine.”

“…Cherche?”

The woman’s laughter stops and she regards Cordelia more seriously than ever before, though a touch of humour remains on her lips. “In all seriousness, thank you for today, _Cordelia_.” The redhead takes a moment to wonder why the sound of her name on Cherche’s lips gives her such a strange feeling of warmth. The wyvern rider laughs again, and this time her fingertips seem to ghost over Cordelia’s chin. “I’ve been told my armour is rather on the more risqué side of things, but what can I say? It certainly has its uses.”

Cordelia can’t stop herself from letting out a curious, strangely low whisper of, “Oh?”

“Mhm,” says Cherche, the playful dip of her accent causing heat to rise in Cordelia’s cheeks. “I’ve been told that the way I look on the battlefield can be a touch… _distracting_. Do you find that that’s the case?”

At the furious blush that Cordelia is certain has spread out across her cheeks, Cherche giggles and begins to walk away, confirmation of her theory written in the rush of blood visible on Cordelia’s face. The redhead’s eyes follow the other woman, gaze planted firmly on the way Cherche’s curtain of hair flows with every step; revealing and concealing that perfect back over and over again.

“Cherche?”

“Yes?”

Cordelia freezes. _You’re in love with Chrom, you’re in love with Chrom, you’re in love with Chrom—_ and yet, she’s never felt quite this way whenever she’s looked at Chrom, who’s married and a father besides.

Cherche is different. Cherche is…a mystery to her. She clears her throat, “Perhaps it would be best to look into less…distracting forms of dress?”

“Oh? And why would I do that? I’m rather comfortable with my armour as it is now.”

“I assure you, I understand that…I just found it rather difficult to watch your back today, considering how much I wanted to watch your back.” _Great. Fantastic, Cordelia. Fantastic._

Cherche’s giggle is different than her battlefield mirth; it’s genuine and sweet and it makes Cordelia want to giggle too. Unabashedly, freely, like a schoolgirl. “Well then perhaps you’d join me in the dinner tent tonight…purely to discuss how you can best watch my back?”

Cordelia grins in spite of herself. “Very well, then.”


	2. Day 2: Endings, or, The Dancer and Her Khan

Their story begins in the grand hall of Castle Ferox, when Olivia is fourteen and freezing and frightened and Khan Flavia is none of those things. The dancer hides behind a curtain of loose hair, cowering in front of a woman who is everything she is not. Powerful. Commanding. In control.

 

The words that mark their first meeting form a promise, and a tentative acceptance of it.

 

“I am Flavia, the East-Khan, and I promise that you will never want for protection while you remain here.”

 

“Y-you have my t-thanks.”

 

True to her word, the older woman guards Olivia’s room when the dancer turns in for the night, and during the day when a variety of nobles waltz in and out of the castle’s many halls. Khan Flavia is kind, considerate of Olivia’s needs though she has a duty to her people. Olivia wants for nothing. During her months-long stay at Castle Ferox, Olivia feels secure.

 

She is only fourteen, but she is completely smitten.

 

In spring, things change. When Basilio declares his intentions to take her along on a tour of the country, Olivia agrees. He is her saviour, and, more importantly, his Eastern counterpart is leaving the castle as well.

 

Olivia does not want to imagine the cold stone walls without Khan Flavia by her side.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Their story continues when Basilio pulls Olivia into the battle against Gangrel. She has not seen Khan Flavia in two years, but has heard of her exploits across all of Regna Ferox. Olivia would never admit it to her dear friend Basilio, but when the East-Khan takes leadership of Ferox for herself—with Lord Chrom’s help, of course—Olivia is almost aflutter with joy at the thought of such a kind-hearted warrior at the helm of the country. Not that Basilio isn’t every bit as worthy but…he just isn’t Khan Flavia.

 

Olivia isn’t sure that the East-Khan would have involved her in something so dangerous, but the thought proves uncharitable to her benefactor; besides, hasn’t she always wanted to prove her worth, not only to Basilio, but to the whole world?

 

“I remember you,” says a voice that Olivia remembers well. “You’re the pretty little dancer Basilio saved a couple of years back, right?”

“P-pretty?!” Olivia doesn’t mean to, but she jumps a little at that. The tankard of ale she’d meant to bring to Basilio is spilled onto the dirt of the mess tent, and she stares at the wet patch on the ground without meaning to.

“Aye, pretty,” says Khan Flavia, a cool, strong laugh on her lips. “Your name is Olivia, if I recall?”

“Y-yes! Thank you, Khan Flavia!”

The Khan smiles at her with something akin to confusion in her—beautiful, striking—violet eyes, and Olivia wishes she could just disappear. “Now, what could you possibly have to thank me for?”

“F-for…f-for…for watching over me all those times…back at Castle Ferox!”

Khan Flavia laughs again, but it isn’t mean or teasing, and Olivia relaxes the arms she didn’t realize she’d been holding taut against her body. “No need to mention it.” Before Olivia can respond, the Khan bends down to pick the fallen tankard up off the ground. “I’ll fill this back up and bring it to that old oaf. You should get some rest.” The hand that isn’t holding the tankard comes to rest on Olivia’s thin, uncovered shoulder. “We’ll all need to be in our finest forms tomorrow.”

Olivia scampers away with the sound of a choked, half-whispered “Thank you!” barely making its way past her lips.

 

 

Olivia is dancing for the Exalt’s youngest sister, just slightly behind Khan Flavia, when Lord Chrom’s tactician uses her lance to end the Mad King. The thunderous roar from the East Khan and her regiment is enough to startle her into falling _slightly_ out of step in her routine. Thankfully, she’s the only one who notices, as the rest of the soldiers around her are too busy raising their weapons in triumph.

 

Olivia is delighted to have been of help, but the real reward isn’t the gold that Chrom promises to send her; or the housing in Ferox that Basilio promises to her. The real reward of the day is the smile that Khan Flavia sends her way later that night, as Olivia dances in celebration for Ylisse’s victory.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Two years pass before there is any progress to their story. In the peace time Olivia has travelled the world, dancing, resting with friends when she can. In spite of Basilio’s standing invitation to Castle Ferox, she cannot go back. Even when Khan Flavia is in residence.

Olivia knows that hers are dangerous feelings to have. The Khan could choose anyone, man or woman; what would she want from a nameless dancer like Olivia? The thought causes bile to rise in her throat, and that is reason enough for her not to return to Castle Ferox. Or at least, she convinces herself that it is.

 

She is surprised when Robin, who by now has become one of her most treasured friends, calls her back to Ylisstol. Robin looks healthy and well for a woman whose wife insists on them both maintaining strict training regimens even during quiet years, but Olivia can see the happiness coming out of Robin in waves. Clearly Chrom’s flame-haired paladin is a good fit for her.

Robin’s pleasantries are familiar, just as warm and readily loving as they had been on Olivia’s first night as a Shepherd. As always, Olivia loves Robin for that; for the way Robin has of allowing her friends to transition smoothly into this world of politics and war; these domains that are really the only realms she knows. Even still, the warmth of Robin’s greeting does not prepare her for the sight of Khan Flavia in all her glory.

“K-khan Flavia!”

“Hey, Olivia,” is the casual reply. A grin follows shortly after, “You’re looking well.”

Olivia knows that Robin can feel the heat rise on her skin, but thankfully the woman says nothing as she ushers Olivia and Khan Flavia into the castle. The tactician is friendly as she chats with them on the way to the meeting hall, and Olivia relaxes in spite of how close the Khan’s warm, metal-clad body is to her own. Perhaps Robin hadn’t noticed her full-body blush.

 

When Olivia finds herself seated beside Khan Flavia during the strategy meeting, she knows better. Of course Robin had done the seating on purpose, sly girl. Olivia doesn’t know how she gets through the majority of the discussion, but it would appear that things aren’t looking so well.

 

The Valmese are coming.

At one point, she thinks that she can feel Khan Flavia’s hand brush hers in a gesture of comfort, but Olivia can’t be sure of that. She can’t be sure of anything except for the knowledge that war is looming just overhead and she may very well lose more friends in the days, weeks, and months (perhaps years) that follow this moment.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Their story is put down for a moment as the Valmese campaign increases in ferocity. Olivia has never known herself to be so covered in blood, but as she moves to take up both lance and tome as a dark flier, she feels a strange sense of ease come over her. It isn’t that killing has become any easier, no, but…Olivia can’t explain it. She’s beginning to feel more at home on the battlefield.

 

It must be her Feroxi roots finally laying claim to her, she thinks as she tears through a man’s armour with a Wind spell.

 

The thought also serves to bring her closer to Khan Flavia, which is always nice… _even though this isn’t the time for such thoughts._ Throwing herself into each battle, Olivia is reminded every day that she and her loved ones are nothing if not mortal; Basilio’s death breaks her down most of all, even more than it does Lon’qu or even Khan Flavia. The first chance she gets, she throws herself into battle and is rewarded by the screams of the dying, and Olivia feels numb but soldiers on anyway. For Basilio’s sake. For all of their sakes. For Khan Flavia.

Regardless of her motivations, Olivia is more than pleased when Cordelia claps her on the shoulder and tells her that she is a true Pegasus Knight sister. _Would she be proud of me, if she knew?_ Khan Flavia looks withdrawn whenever she comes to call on Lord Chrom and Robin, but Olivia thinks, once or twice, that she has caught the older woman smiling her way. She doesn’t have time to entertain the thought for too long before Walhart is defeated and Grima looms above them in his place.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

When Khan Flavia and the not-truly-dead Basilio join their forces, the story resumes at full speed. Olivia vows to see them both through it alive. Shortly after that Flavia is hit with a nasty spell, but upon her recovery, Olivia is there with tears in her eyes and love in her hands. The dancer rarely leaves the Khan’s side after that.

 

 

Only days before what could end up being the end of the world, the Shepherds find a mercenary named Inigo, a young man with honeyed skin and golden hair and all the grace of an artist, and for once the story of the dancer and her Khan becomes clearer than it ever has been.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Mama, that can’t be it!” says the boy in the woman’s lap, and he beats his small fists against the bedspread in childish impatience.

“Come now, my little warrior,” says an older woman, the boy’s other parent. “Let your mama reach the end.”

The woman holding the boy smiles and allows her lover to leave a warm kiss on her uncovered shoulder before speaking. “Thank you, dear. Now, where was I?”

“How did the story become clearer?”

The woman smiles at her young son and takes one of his hands in her own. In the other, her lover places her own hand, and together they form a chain; a circle with no ending. “When the Fell Dragon was slain, the dancer and her Khan came together, and though they had never spoken of such things as love before, they knew then what many people had already known.”

“What?”

“They knew,” says the older woman, “that they were to be together until the end of their days.”

The boy fidgets a moment, releasing his mothers’ hands to rub at his eyes and nose before he rejoins them. “That’s nice… but what about the ending of the story?”

The two women laugh, swallowing their boy up in a hug that is as warm as it is secure. “There is no ending yet. Their story will still go on and on.”

 

 

 

The last of the candles is blown out and, in a grand room in Castle Ferox, their story ends for a time as Olivia and Khan Flavia wish their son a good night’s sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd phew. I'm pushing it really close with these, aren't I.


	3. Day 3: Family, or, The Weight of Expectations

Sully has defended countless villagers from death, has completed countless missions for her exalt, has survived a battle against a self-proclaimed god of destruction, and yet…standing in line at the registration hall is more difficult than any of that. Sure, having Lissa by her side helps, but _hells_ if she isn’t ready to just jump into the nearest well. Even dressed in the simple yet sophisticated trousers and tunic combination that Sumia had suggested, Sully feels strange just standing around like any other civilian.

 

Well, any other civilian with the clearance to carry a sword at her hip.

 

“You’re staring at me again,” Lissa says, and Sully feels the familiar drop in her stomach. Her beloved has no clue just how precious she is. Especially when her cheeks are flushed a pretty, pale pink and her big blue eyes are looking at Sully with all of their sweetness and light.

“Sorry babe, it can’t be helped. You—

“Sully! Lissa! Have you been waiting long?”

Sully allows her eyes to follow the sound of the kind, if tired, voice that calls out to them from the top of the stairs. Robin has been running herself ragged it seems, going between the registration hall and the records hall on foot day in and day out. When she isn’t in Chrom’s war-room, of course. Or at the market, fetching whatever her pregnant wife’s addled palette can think to crave. Sully feels like she’s forgetting something, but the sight of Robin juggling a pile of scrolls is so funny that she forgets that feeling soon enough.

“Only an hour or so, Robin!” Lissa calls out. “Where are you off to?”

“Records hall,” Robin says, stooping to pick up a scroll. “Mari said she’d just take them all over there later, but with Br—the baby’s due date so close I just don’t want to risk it!” The tactician who saved the world offers her friends a sweet laugh as yet another scroll bounces off of the top of the pile in her arms. “I’d best be off. See you two later!”

Sully laughs as Robin scampers away. That woman is absolutely whipped.

“Not that you’re much better, right, honey?” Lissa asks, and Sully groans. She really needs to stop speaking her mind out loud. “Yeah, you do.”

“Ha, very funny babe.” Sully notes the odd tinge to Lissa’s smile as they laugh together, and though she’d normally let it go, she’s feeling strangely talkative. “What’s wrong, doll?”

“Nothing, I…just can’t believe that Maribelle’s going to be a mom. It’s weird, right?”

“Nothin’ weird about that, babe. She and Robin have been married since before…you know,” Sully says, and she trails off a moment. Robin’s disappearance has long since been remedied, but the topic is still sore. “Anyway, it’s about time that they started their family, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Lissa says, and she becomes so strangely quiet that Sully _knows_ , just _knows_ that something is wrong.

“What is it, Lissa?” She hates feeling like she doesn’t know what to say to this woman, the love of her life, but sometimes she just doesn’t. “What’s wrong?”

Lissa is silent for a moment, fidgeting with her hair even though it’s as perfect as can be. Sully is glad that at the very least the younger woman hasn’t pulled away from their entwined hands. She waits patiently, something that she isn’t fond of doing, and hopes that Lissa will be okay. The line moves, perhaps less quickly than she thinks, but they’re so close to the doors that Sully can almost feel the smooth paper of their marriage licence in her hands.

“What if I’m a bad mom?”

The question is surprising. Startling, even, because as far as Sully can see there are very few people who could be as good of a mother as Lissa will certainly be. “How can you say that?” She thinks of their eldest, their boy from the future; he’d surely be offended to hear his mother doubting her skills as a parent. Sully thinks of Kjelle, of their strong, beautiful daughter, and knows that she would echo the sentiments of her older brother. She says as much to Lissa, whose reply begins with a tightened grip on Sully’s hand.

“I know. I _know_ that Owain and Kjelle have nothing but good things to say, but I’m not her. There are so many expectations…and so many things that could go wrong. What if I ruin our family, Sully?”

“You won’t,” Sully says, because she believes it. Because it’s the truth. She squeezes Lissa’s hand as a sign of reassurance, and the frown on the princess’s face falters and then fades into a small smile. Sully worries her lip a little; surely this isn’t the end of Lissa’s moping. There has to be something that she can do…but what?

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” Lissa doesn’t sound convinced.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“What’s the matter, Sully?” Lissa sounds as sweet as ever only an hour later, and her voice alone is enough to make the red-haired knight smile.

“Nothing at all, babe,” she replies. “You okay?”

The bubbly princess giggles and pulls her lover closer. “Yeah! Line’s kind of longer than I thought it would be, though.” It appears as if Lissa isn’t upset, which is nice. Still, Sully can’t help but feel like her princess is holding something back from her. The nagging sensation of something she should be doing or saying tugs at the back of her mind, but she can’t place it. Instead, Sully casts her eyes around her, taking in just how many people seem to be in line today.

Personally, she isn’t at all surprised at how busy things are. The Festival of Love is fast approaching and there are plenty of couples looking to get (officially) married before the celebrations begin (for reasons that Sully knows and that Lissa pretends not to know). Were they any other couple she would suggest waiting, but Sully knows how badly Lissa has wanted to make things between them legal and binding; and this is one of the only times she’s been free in the last year.

A few passing onlookers coo at them fondly when they recognize their princess cuddled up to one of the most renowned knights of the realm, but nobody dares to ruin the intimacy of the moment. Sully is sure that their respectful distances have nothing to do with the hand she’s placed casually over the hilt of her sword.

The line of Ylisseans waiting to receive their marriage licences begins to thin as more and more couples are ushered into the building, but it still feels as if they’re hardly moving. Though she knows that it is hardly befitting of two women of their respective stations, Sully nudges her princess with her shoulder and whispers into her ear. “How about a little game, babe?” Surely that will help to lift Lissa’s mood.

“S-Sully!” Lissa flushes almost completely from head to toe, but thankfully her squeal is restrained and doesn’t attract too much attention. To hide her blush from curious villagers, the princess burrows further into Sully’s chest, strands of pale-blonde hair tickling Sully’s chin. “How could you talk about _that_ here!”

Sully can’t resist stepping back and placing a quick kiss on Lissa’s sputtering lips—how adorable _is_ this woman? “Not that kind of game, babe.” She shoots Lissa a wink once the blonde is willing to meet her eyes. “I meant like…a word game or somethin’. You like those, right?”

Lissa watches her face for a moment, and Sully wonders if there’s anything on her cheeks before her princess breaks out into a smile. “Oh, sure!”

Sully smiles and lets Lissa’s voice wash over her completely. She feels guilty at times, knowing how much stress her continued absences put on the younger woman. Maybe that’s adding to Lissa’s worries; maybe she’s afraid of what might happen if something bad happens to Sully. Obviously nothing will, but the prospect of raising a family on her own would be understandably frightening to Lissa…to anyone, really.

“Sully? It’s your turn, three words that start with the letter R.”

“Oh, what? Yeah, okay uh…Rat, raven, Risen.”

“…”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Congratulations, Lissa darling. And to you as well, Sully,” says Maribelle from her place up on the magistrate’s chair. “This is the first step of many in a beautiful life together.”

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Sully says with a grin wider than her own face. The marriage licence in her hands is made of high-quality parchment; the embossing is official and sealed with Maribelle’s own official ring, and Sully is sure that this is what pure joy is supposed to feel like. Lissa’s soft snorts of laughter are a bonus prize as Maribelle shakes her head and mutters something about “boorish knights”. She ushers them out with one more smile and a promise to visit later on in the week.

 

“Now what?” Lissa seems to be a little more withdrawn than normal, and Sully isn’t sure what to do except… _wait_ _a Risen-blasted minute_! In the excitement of the day, she’d almost forgotten. "Do...do you think we're going to be okay?"

"Of course we are," Sully answers, holding Lissa close. “Do you have anything else to do today?”  _Please say you don't._

Lissa pauses and puts a finger to her lip in thought, shaking her head when it becomes apparent that there’s nothing on her schedule. “I mean, aside from helping Chrom with the library funds, but I expect Robin or Miriel will just do it all without my help so…nope, nothing comes to mind. Why?”

“I wanted to show you something,” Sully says, taking Lissa’s hand even though she knows that her princess won’t object. The blonde follows mostly silently, and Sully hopes that she’s not mulling their earlier conversation over in her mind. Still, maybe her surprise will raise Lissa’s spirits.

 

She doesn’t have to take them far, really, and thankfully it’s her horse that does most of the work. It’s only a few minutes, and then they’re standing in front of a house—a small manor, really—slightly on the edge of the city, close enough to the castle to be easily accessible but private enough that the inhabitants of the house need not want for privacy.

“What is this?”

“My parents’ gift to us,” Sully says. “A place where we can be a family in our own way, without any expectations and crap like that to drag us down.”

Lissa smiles so brightly that Sully feels almost blinded.

“I love it!”

“Aww, that’s great mom, we love it too!”

Sully holds back her own laughter as Owain and Kjelle spring out of the house and wrap their mother up in tight hugs. Tears of joy leap from Lissa’s eyes as the two pull her towards their new home, and Sully hangs back a moment just to watch.

 

They may be just starting out, but Sully has a feeling that she and Lissa, and their whole family, are going to be just fine.


	4. Day 4: Legend, or, A Fitting Tale

There are stories, old Taguel stories bound up in her mind; as old and immovable as stone: tales of heroism and love rewarded; of the highest form of love. The sort of thing that humans have always been enamoured with: the concept of an undying passion. The Taguel, too, had not been immune to the allures of epic romance, it seems, else she is sure she would have forgotten the legends by now.

Clearly there is merit in the words of elders long gone.

_The world aches for true love in all its forms._

Panne knows without question that true love knows no bounds; knows it in every inch of fur on her body, in every pulse of her blood. After all, how else could it be that the vessel of Grima—though of course Robin is so much _more_ than that—could find her true solace in the arms of Naga’s own daughter? If that is not argument enough for love, well—Panne casts her eyes towards the woman sleeping at her side.

Perhaps her own strange love story could suffice as proof.

Gods above, how she loves this woman. In spite of their many, _many_ differences; in spite of how much Miriel can drive her insane; in spite of how strange it still seems that of all the humans in the world—of all the sentient creatures with whom she could have possibly mated—Panne has chosen this one; it is undeniable, uncontestable, that Panne would die a hundred deaths to make Miriel happy.

 

The fact that Miriel would ask her to do just that if such a thing were possible does little to dull the sentiment, the strength of Panne’s affections.

 

That last thought bothers the Taguel only slightly. It bothers her because she knows just what she would do for Miriel, but Miriel has never said anything quite so grand—strange considering how much more prone to boasting most man spawn seem to be. Of course, Panne understands that such behaviour is just not in Miriel’s nature. She doubts that she would even understand any largely obvious declarations of love on Miriel’s part.

 

It’s still mildly irritating, however, not to know precisely what her place is in the other woman’s world; they have yet to marry, though it has been a year since the fall of Grima.

 

Panne reaches out to twine a finger in straight auburn hair, but stops just short of actually doing it. Though she’s sure that the inevitable lecture on proper sleeping habits would be most _edifying_ , there will be time enough for talk—and plenty of it, at that—tomorrow. She turns, burrowing as far into Miriel’s warmth as she can without actually touching the other woman; the mage is rather temperature-sensitive.

“Panne?” She winces softly; Miriel seems to have felt the ghost of her touch.

“Yes?”

“Is there something bothering you that would require your seeking of my assistance?”

“No.” She curses her own prickly nature; it makes conversing with her lover more frustrating than she assumes it normally would be.

For her part Miriel seems less than convinced, and within seconds the lantern by their bedside is lit and Panne is greeted by the sight of pale skin and freckles and a sleep-warmed half-smile. Not that Miriel isn’t always warm—at least, warm in her own way—but this is different. This is the most vulnerable that Panne has ever seen the mage…aside from during certain other night-time routines.

“I think it would behoove you to inform me of any changes to your sleeping pattern, Panne, so that I may be best prepared to determine the cause and seek out an appropriate method of treatment.”

“I am fine.”

Miriel shakes her head. “I’ll need more easily quantifiable statements if I am to assist you.”

Panne almost, _almost_ wants to rip off her own ears, because frankly it’s too late in the night—or perhaps too early in the morning—to be dealing with this. Much as she loves Miriel, Panne has come to seriously enjoy her silences when she has them. “I wish to sleep, Miriel.”

“Very well. Good night.” The lantern is blown out, and Panne lies still, but awake, in the darkness. Of all the stories she knows, she doesn’t believe that there are any two lovers quite like herself and Miriel. She resolves to look into the matter in the morning. For now, she just needs some rest.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

With the warmth of the sun comes clarity, and Panne is glad to find that she remembers her stories better with the sunlight.

She tells the tales to herself every so often, lest she forget them, but at times small details slip away. Though the continuation of her species has never been too much of a concern—a sentiment only doubled with the appearance of two half-Taguel sons from the future—the oral traditions of the Taguel are rich with detail; it would be a shame to lose such stories. The practice also serves to keep her mind sharp, a valuable asset on the battlefield and, now that her living situation seems to be fixed, in her home life.

“I can’t say I understand the point of this exercise,” Miriel says as she peers over a book to stare deeply into Panne’s very soul.

Panne feels her whiskers twitch ever-so-slightly, but she simply shakes her head and says, “I can’t say I understand it either, but I am…curious.” She says nothing more, motioning to Miriel that she will be returning shortly, after a brisk jog.

The studious mage mutters something about how Panne is taking an “exercise in futility”, but there’s still a warm bowl of carrot soup waiting for her upon her return, and Panne places a kiss on Miriel’s cheek—not that the mage notices, though a smile does grace her lips—before dropping into one of Miriel’s comfiest armchairs. Their home is relatively silent save for the sounds of the birds outside and the flipping of pages, the occasional scratch of a pen, and Panne knows that this is the perfect time to run through all the legends in her head.

Surely there is one that tells of a love like hers.

 

She begins with the story of Agora and Batiste, but drops it promptly. It isn’t that the tale is about a male and a female, but that neither Agora nor Batiste can boast of Miriel’s superior intelligence.

 

Next is the tale of Damask and Cashmere, but again, something is wrong. This time, it is that neither of the two males in the starring roles can claim to be from the same tragic history as Panne.

 

Panne tries the epic of Bengaline and Gabardine, a story about two female warriors; Taguel from different clans who found each other in a time of war. Though the specifics are not a perfect match, it is an epic that reminds Panne much of her own life, and yet…still, it isn’t right. It feels wrong to say that this is a story representative of her life with Miriel.

 

Frustrated, Panne sifts through legend after legend, but nothing comes up. She is unsure as to why she has become so fixated on finding something to match, but...

“Panne, you have been hemming and hawing for the last three hours, and though we are bonded partners I must admit that it is rather distracting for me to be so concerned over whatever it is that has puzzled you.”

Panne stares at her lover for longer than most would consider appropriate, half because she wants to and half because she knows that Miriel won’t care. She could tell her. She could explain precisely why she’s so perplexed. It might help. It might, it truly might.

 

So she does, because Panne is nothing if not honest in her thoughts.

 

Miriel is understandably uninterested—not really, this just isn’t her area of expertise—but she doesn’t brush off the idea as Panne had expected she would. Instead, she does two things that are strangely out of character for the woman Panne has come to know. First, she presses a warm kiss to Panne’s lips, surprising the Taguel with the swift sweetness of the action. Secondly, she speaks, and for the first time Panne has no trouble understanding the words coming from her lover’s lips, or the undercurrent of affection that accompanies them.

“Why does it matter, as long as we are happy?”

Panne knows it doesn’t, but now she truly is curious. What about them is so different from the other Taguel romances that no appropriate examples can be found? Panne takes a moment to flick her whiskers back; she’s beginning to sound a lot like her lover, even if only in her head.

“If it truly bothers you, perhaps you should speak to Laurent and Yarne. They may have some knowledge that you lack, being as close to the search as you are.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“I can’t say that I remember any of your stories with much clarity, Mother, but I know that there was one I liked in particular. Yarne? Oh, and Mother, I have already groomed myself this morning, though I thank you for your attention.”

Panne stops bathing her bespectacled son’s face long enough to turn to his brother, the more obviously half-Taguel of the pair. “Son?”

“I know which one he’s talking about! It’s the story of uh…of…uh…”

Panne tries her best to smile at her son, but by the look on his face it is more threatening than encouraging. She closes her mouth quickly.

“Velvet was one of the heroines,” Laurent supplies for his brother. Panne is too busy staring at her other son’s quivering ears to notice the dark-haired mage’s hand dipping into a pocket to pull out a simple handkerchief.

Yarne stares at his brother for a moment, blankly, and then his eyes light up and his ears stand at attention. “The Song of Velvet and Mireille!”

Panne wants to say that one, Mireille is not a Taguel name and two, there is no such legend, but the way that even Laurent seems to brighten at the mention stops her. The two brothers stand side-by-side, laughing in remembrance. Panne smiles because her sons are so tall, so strong and handsome, true Taguel in all things. All that is missing in the moment is Miriel, but Panne would hate to disturb her. They will have more chances. Instead, Panne allows the pure joy of the moment to embrace her, and she shares in her boys’ laughter even though no jests have been made.

 

Laurent is the first to speak again. “That’s the one. The perfect tale; it mirrored yours and Mother’s love to startling exactitude. As boys, Yarne and I always thought that you’d made it up, but it was, as you and Mother always insisted, the truest legend of love to have ever been told.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

It’s those words that hold onto Panne’s attention, and when her boys have left, she understands. Perhaps her future self had felt a similar discomfort, a similar longing to find a place for her love within the histories of her heritage. Perhaps her future self had, as she had been too embarrassed to do, gone to Miriel for assistance…and perhaps, just perhaps, together, they had crafted a legend of their own.

 

A story for their sons to carry onward, to their own children, and on and on and on.

A legend within its own right.


	5. Day 5: Sunshine, or, What's In A Name

She feels annoyingly cool in spite of the fact that the sun is hitting her face almost directly, filtered only by a thin pane of pristine glass.

Tharja is always too cool in this blasted Ylissean climate, always cool and tired; but as she watches Sumia bend down to whisper to a struggling rosebud on her way into their home, Tharja smiles. If she blurs Sumia out, focuses her attention elsewhere—not that she would want to—she can see her own reflection in the glass, her pale, tired half-image a gift from the even paler sun. Why is the sun so very cold? Sumia catches her staring, seems to see that Tharja is not even looking at her, and yet the dark mage allows herself a moment to just take in how the tiny, yet radiant smile on Sumia’s face is undoubtedly just for her.

After all, Sumia is sunlight embodied, and Tharja feels some measure of warmth return to her body when their eyes meet; a temporary respite from her fatigue.

By all accounts, theirs is a relationship that nobody would have expected; one without reason, without rhyme, without any logical sense behind it. And yet here they are, and it has been a year of living together in a too-small cottage on a farm just a few minutes’ walk away from the too-large manor in which Sumia’s noble family still resides. Chrom—the Exalt now, Tharja reminds herself—had offered to get Sumia’s pegasus-raising idea off the ground, but Tharja knows that the other woman is waiting for something. Waiting for her, perhaps.

 

Waiting for a promise that Tharja is almost absolutely certain she should _not_ be making, no matter how much she aches to make it.

 

They began as a mistake, really, or perhaps _mistake_ is too harsh a word to describe what had been one accidental night spent in the barracks together, talking over mulled cider and without anybody else to stem the flow of tears. Emmeryn’s fall had affected Tharja’s mood, Tharja’s entire being, more than she would have liked to admit, but Sumia had been open with her emotions. Open with the pain, the hurt, the loss and the pride she had felt—pride in _what_ , Tharja remembers asking.

 

“I am proud to have borne witness to Exalt Emmeryn’s legacy.”

 

Sumia hadn’t once mentioned how it was a man of Tharja’s own people who had ended just that legacy.

 

From that first night that bled on until the morning, they’d met each other again and again in the barracks. Tharja remembers being sought out first, remembers the sight of warm tears falling, catching the light of the dying fire before splashing into nothingness on the tabletop. She remembers refusing to cry herself, when Sumia’s words made their proper impact on her understanding. Cordelia and Robin: together and happy in spite of the blood raining down upon them all. Tharja remembers the anguish in Sumia’s eyes on that night. The pegasus knight had appealed to her for strength, for some mild admonishments to be happy for two friends who had found each other, but Tharja had been just as lost, just as in need of a healing hand.

 

In spite of her love for the dark, she had been looking for the light without realizing it.

 

As the campaign continued, as they fought closer and closer to reach the man Tharja had never once felt the need to call “king”, something changed. Tharja had always known somewhere in her heart—which did work, does work, in spite of all thought indicating otherwise—that Robin was never meant to be hers. Sumia had said as much about Cordelia, who would always be her best friend, her confidante, but nothing more.

Once they had been able to admit it to themselves, and later, to each other, Tharja had begun to notice, ever so slowly, the way that Sumia’s mouth moved when she read. The way she held her mug and lifted it, still steaming with heat, to her lips. Sumia in turn began to notice…something about Tharja. Something attractive about her: perhaps a quality shared with a character in one of Sumia’s favourite books?

It certainly wasn’t her sunny personality, though Tharja allows herself a second to laugh wryly, quietly, at her own jokes.

Whatever the reason, from that moment on they had gotten through Robin and Cordelia’s whirlwind of a romance together. Tharja credits Sumia for helping her through it. She knows that alone, she could never have done it, could never have gotten through the proclamations of love, and the romantic, unexpected proposal that had even surpassed Chrom’s own.   

And after all of that surviving, all of that getting through things together, they had been left with each other. Sumia had seen something in her, in her broody nature and discomfort at being left behind. For Tharja, the knowledge that somebody like Sumia had taken an interest in her had been both startling and yet so flattering that she had not been able to say no when the other woman asked if they could take things between them further than a friendship would normally go.

 

“You seem to be thinking hard about something,” Sumia says, bumping shoulders with Tharja playfully as she brings a basket of something vaguely useful-looking—perhaps even edible—into the house. Tharja turns away from the window so that she can watch as Sumia dances around their kitchen, setting things straight in an effort to look busier than she feels she is. The grey-brown of her hair seems to hold some of the sunlight in its every curl, and Tharja thinks that it is among the most beautiful colours she has ever seen.

“Thinking of you,” she says, cringing because it comes out more drily than she’d wanted. Romance is difficult even now, but something about Sumia brings out the best in her; the part of her that is more willing to try.

Sumia’s cheeks are graced with pink, a different shade than a brief touch of the sun can provide. “Flatterer,” she says as she picks up a pot. “Do you have any plans for this evening or shall I get started on dinner now?” The pot hovers above the counter, waiting for Tharja.

Sumia always seems to be waiting for Tharja.

“Whatever you think is best. Now is fine. I’m running low on a few ingredients, but the peak hour for collection is not until midnight, so…”

Sumia turns back and smiles at Tharja as if she’s a perfectly natural, beautiful sunbeam lighting up their cottage. “I’ll get right to it, then.” Tharja hums in appreciation and walks over to the tabletop, reaching into the basket to pull out vegetables and herbs and all sorts of things that Sumia will undoubtedly use for tonight’s meal.

“Would you like any help?”

“No, no, Sunshine,” Sumia says, crinkling her nose cutely as the last word leaves her lips.

Tharja sighs but she can’t bring herself to truly be upset. It’s her fault for letting Sumia go honey-gathering with a certain carrot-haired thief so often. Tharja knows that her sweetheart—oh, how she _loathes_ the term in spite of how well it suits Sumia—had only picked up the infernal nickname from _him_.

The effect is different, of course, as while Gaius has always used a touch of sarcasm, Sumia is genuine in every syllable, and it makes Tharja smile…even if only to herself.

“You know, if anything, that awful moniker is more appropriately applied to you, Su.” _Even the first two letters are a match._

“What’s this business about it being awful? It’s adorable!” Sumia drops a carrot as her hands wave about, and Tharja stoops to pick it up. Perhaps it would be best if she helped Sumia prepare their meal.

“You’re adorable,” Tharja says, pleased when it comes out…not well, but not stiff either.

Sumia’s only response is to blush.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Tharja?”

It’s a few hours past midnight, and Tharja is surprised to see that Sumia is still awake. The other woman has left only a single candle burning, and in spite of that she seems to be aglow, simply awash in bright, bright light.

“What is it?”

“Does the nickname bother you?”

Tharja has to think about it for a second. It doesn’t truly annoy her so much as it used to, back in the earlier days of its history. The fact that it is almost exclusively Sumia who uses it helps, of course, but, “No. It doesn’t. Not anymore. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Sumia says, and with that she waits patiently for Tharja to join her under the sheets. The dark mage’s response is to hurry with her storage of her foraged ingredients in order to strip down into the thin slip she’d forgotten to change out of earlier in the night.

“Shall I blow out the candle?”

“Yes.”

Sumia does just that and Tharja turns not to the window, but to the pegasus knight’s face. Whether it is the moon’s light, or Sumia’s own glow that does it, she is almost certain that the room is just as bright as it had been only seconds before. “Why does it matter if my nickname bothers me or not?”

Sumia sighs, but if Tharja has learned anything about the other woman it is that she does not need to be hard-pressed for answers. “I just thought, since you’ve helped me through so much…that you’re like a ray of sunshine in my life. So it’s fitting. But if you don’t like it I don’t have to call you that.”

The answer is surprising mostly because Tharja knows that there’s nothing even vaguely sunshine-esque about her, but if Sumia truly feels that way…then that’s perfectly fine. It must be something about the other woman, the way that she looks for any whisper of the romantic in her daily life, the way she _believes_ so strongly in love, in happy endings. At once, Tharja knows what to say, even though such sentiments go against the grain of her being.

“I can keep on being your sunshine.” _I can,_ she tells herself. “As long as you continue to be mine.” _Or else,_ she wants to add, but common sense holds her back.

 

When Sumia smiles, Tharja feels the fatigue drain away from her bones; it’s as if the sun has come early.


	6. Day 6: Secret, or, Do You Want To Hear

When they are small and the world is still bright, Morgan and Noire are the very best of friends. It stems, perhaps, from the knowledge that they might have been sisters had things worked out differently. At least, they believe that to be the case. It might very well be true.

All of their parents comment something to that effect at some point; for Robin, it is a simple statement of fact; for her wife, Aversa, a darkly-tinted joke. When Noire’s mama says it, it is with sadness tingeing her lovely voice, though Noire’s mother seems to have taken things the worst. Whenever the subject is brought up, Mother disappears into her basement lair—her _study_ , as Mama insists it be called—and Noire isn’t sure, but she can hear some truly foul words if she stands just-so at the top of the stairs.

 

This habit of Mother’s becomes something that nobody ever mentions, one small secret in the complex web that is their lives.

 

Sometimes, when her family walks together in the market, Noire hears the whispers, the wounding words that the people of Ylisstol are only too willing to use in her family’s presence. They call Mother “Plegian scum”, and Mama “that Feroxi whore”. As for Noire and her little brother, well...there are only so many times one can be called a cur before the anger begins to build. It is in those moments, those saddening times, when Morgan always seems to appear, prepared to brighten Noire’s dark mood.

 

 

 

When Noire is nine, Morgan stops her from cursing a young Ylissean-born boy out of rage. As a treat for her self-control, Noire is given two candied apples and a jar of balled lightning.

_“Do you want to hear a secret? I made this myself, even though Mother told me not to try to trap the elements. It’s safe, I promise, just…don’t tell my mothers I made this for you, okay?”_

The apples are split and shared between them; and the jar of balled lightning stays on Noire’s desk until it burns itself out.

 

She never tells anyone where she got it; it’s something special, something just between herself and Morgan.

 

 

 

When Noire is twelve, Morgan saves her from a band of violent young noble-born girls. The grandmaster’s daughter is gentle with Noire’s bruises, apologetic when her dark magic can do nothing to heal the cuts and scrapes that line Noire’s arms and legs. Noire cherishes the moment, but the best feeling is the soft kiss that Morgan leaves on her cheek once Noire is safely at her cottage door.

_“Do you want to hear a secret? I wasn’t supposed to go out today, but I noticed you running past and I had to see if you were okay. Feel better!”_

She doesn’t tell her mother that last part, only about Morgan’s daring rescue, and that night she treasures the skin on her cheek and wonders what it could mean.

 

 

 

 

When Noire is fourteen, the Risen attacks begin. All Shepherds and their family members are brought to live in Castle Ylisstol, and the world shakes uneasily at their feet. Lucina’s father is stopped from fighting as much as he’d like to, old wounds acting up and ruining his once unparalleled swordsmanship. Sixteen year-old Lucina does not say anything, but she can be found practicing with Falchion in the dead of the night; it is a necessity that she learn how to wield her father’s blade as well as he once did.

There are war meetings almost every day, and as is customary when one is a child of Shepherds, Noire is asked to attend. She does unwillingly, because her brother insists on going and she worries for Inigo—or at least, for what he might say without any sort of guardianship. Mama is on the frontlines at this point, risking her life in order to help keep the morale of the Ylissean forces at a stable place. Mother is held back at the castle, something that Noire is secretly glad to see upsets her.

None of that matters, however, when she notices the way that Morgan’s eyes drop to the floor as the noise in the war room escalates into a cacophonous crescendo of shouts and crying. Lady Robin is trying her best to maximize protection while minimizing losses, but all of her careful planning doesn’t seem to be enough and the stress of the job is taking its toll. Noire watches as her best friend’s mother clenches a hand into a fist, the knuckles of each finger turning white with the force. Her eyes, Noire sees, are rimmed with red.

“The meeting is adjourned for the day,” she says, and nobody objects. Everybody files out of the room holding back tears or angry grumbles, and Noire hangs about waiting for Morgan.

“Tough day today,” she says when it is just the two of them, and she is rewarded by Morgan’s signature laugh. It’s a different sound than Cynthia’s giddy scale of laughter; at once more subdued and yet more free than any other laugh that Noire has ever heard.

“Tough is an understatement, but things are brightening up now!”

Noire can’t see how that is, and she says as much with a tilt of her head and a curious, “Oh?”

“Yeah! We’re together now, aren’t we?”

 

Noire only blushes in response. Sometimes the small things Morgan says when they are alone can do that, can make her feel silly and stupid and shy with a girl she’s known for her entire life. It’s the kind of thing Noire doesn’t tell anyone, not Mother or Mama or, heavens forbid, Inigo. It’s the kind of thing she keeps to herself, a small secret from the rest of the universe.

The rush of joy she feels when Morgan takes her hand and pulls her along the quiet hallways is another.

_“Do you want to hear a secret? I saw Kjelle and Severa kissing the other day…on the lips, but I thought they didn’t like each other! Isn’t that strange?”_

 

 

***

 

 

 

Though the whispers— _traitors, liars, scum, murderers—_ surrounding both of their families are harsh and horrid and hurtful, Morgan and Noire eventually succumb to the mutual pull that exists between the two of them As Morgan tells anybody who asks, anybody who will listen, “There’s no time like the present!” It’s fitting, if in a more macabre sense than she intends. After all, Morgan is fifteen, Noire one year her senior; and Ylisse is burning around the edges as the Risen close in on paranoia-plagued Ylisstol.

 

 

Princess Lucina takes up her newly-deceased father’s mantle with great courage, but the destruction of the world is imminent, and the people of Ylisstol are afraid.

 

 

They are not the only ones. Noire’s Mama is dead, Mother is insane, and Inigo refuses to look at anyone anymore. Instead he dances against his surviving mother’s wishes, performing in dark hallways, in darker forest glades, and Noire cannot begrudge him his small rebellions because she understands. His dancing is all he has of Mama now. Noire knows he will come to her when he is ready, and so she focuses on Morgan instead. Unlike her younger brother, Morgan is almost completely alone.

Nobody knows quite how it had happened, but the world lost both Exalt Chrom and his tactician in one fell swoop. Lady Aversa, too, was lost at the same time. Morgan is devastated, understandably so, but the only one who ever sees the young tactician fall to pieces is Noire.

She does not breathe a word of it to anybody else, just watches. Morgan fights harder than ever, desperation clinging to her every move, and Noire worries but says nothing. Just watches as the young woman she loves tears herself further and further to pieces. People on the street say nothing of her sacrifices, and Noire has to restrain herself from cursing civilians; her energy is better put to use in consoling Morgan.

 

“I loved my parents more than anybody could ever understand,” Morgan says one night, when it is just the two of them. “Nobody ever gave them a chance. Just because they weren’t born in Ylisse…”

And she trails off, because she knows that Noire understands.

 

 

 

_“Hey…Morgan?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Do you want to hear a secret?”_

_“…No…sorry, not right now.”_

 

 

 

As the battles become longer, as the days drag on and death lingers in every accent, in every place Noire turns to look, dread settles upon the capitol. She feels it, feels the change coming over all of them, all of those who remain. They are dying, dying, dead soon enough, but nobody wants to be the first to fall.

Mother is gone, her body found only days before, bloodless and almost too far gone for recognition. Inigo no longer dances, the smile on his face a shameless lie, but Noire is more concerned with Morgan; Morgan who never smiles, who never laughs, who rarely speaks anymore save for battle orders and strategy meetings. There is a rift between them, though Noire loves the other girl so much she barely feels anything except for that warmth.

 

The entire world is a madhouse, and Noire craves the simpler days of sharing secrets.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

The world is dark and quiet, and it seems that for once, the sanctity of night will be respected. Morgan is nowhere to be found, and Noire retires alone for the fifth time in a week.

“Noire?”

She knows that there is something different, something off about the Morgan at her door, but still she turns with a smile on her face. They have their fights, yes, but they can make it through this war together. She forces herself to believe in that, if in nothing else.

It is difficult not to scream, but Morgan is dripping in dark blood, the grin on her face twisted and broken and cruel.

Noire knows she is as good as dead before Morgan’s tome is raised.

 

 

_“Do you want to hear a secret, Noire? My mother is Grima, both my parents are alive, and soon, we will all be as gods.”_

_“G-grima…and y-you?”_

_“Yes…but that will be our secret, dear Noire. Not that you have a choice. Farewell.”_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I don't know why this happened the way it did.


	7. Day 7: Free Day, or, A Grand Finale

In less than three days she will have to choose between herself and the fate of the entire world, and Robin has never been faced with an easier decision. What is her life when measured against the lives of those she loves, against those who will be loved by others in the thousands of years that pass? She cannot afford to be selfish. The world requires better of her than that.

Though Chrom almost forces her to promise anything other than her own death, Robin avoids giving an outright vow to him—she will not be made a liar upon her sacrifice. It is difficult to watch him come to terms with her decision, difficult to feel so distant from the man who had taken her in during her hour of need, but it is something that must be done. He cannot hold on to their friendship forever. As Exalt, Chrom will have to learn to stand on his own two feet, without her.

 

The knowledge that that is what _must_ happen does little to comfort her as the days fade into each other.

 

It is not only Chrom who clings, of course. From stubborn, ever-persistent Tharja to sweet, simple Donnel, she will miss each and every Shepherd, and knows that she will be missed in turn. Some of them, like Sully and Vaike, refuse to approach the impending battle with Grima as a race to Robin’s death. Others like Noire and Morgan, like Owain and Lissa and Inigo, all prolong their march intentionally, trying as hard as they might to have Robin for just another minute more.

Of all of her comrades Cherche and Cordelia are the most visibly torn, even more so than Chrom, and Robin knows that their withdrawn dispositions are all her doing. Cordelia slips up in her duties once—but never more than once—and Cherche’s ever-present smile is taut and devoid of its usual charming glow. Though their relationship does not suffer much, she knows that they sometimes argue now where before they would quietly discuss; Cordelia the calm, yet fair logic to Cherche’s more passionate idealism.  Though they both know it would be for the best, they cannot just let Robin go.

 

They are among the very best of her friends, true **family** in law and everything but blood.

 

A small part of Robin knows that their worry and stress is not just for themselves; that they worry more for the sake of their daughter is evident in their every interaction with Robin. She doesn’t blame them; why shouldn’t they worry for Severa when Robin had promised to love and cherish her, to keep her happy in spite of what people might say to a relationship between them? Even taciturn Gerome is freer with his words than he would normally be, willing to do all in his power to ensure security of mind for his only sister.

 

Of all the Shepherds, it is Severa who knew first, Severa who knows that Robin’s decision will not change. It is Severa whose heart has broken already, the inevitability of losing her soul’s mate a hurdle even she cannot surmount.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“You know that Chrom won’t let you do this. He’ll end Grima himself, and you’re going to let him,” Severa says, but Robin notes the lack of conviction in her voice. It is almost as if her words are a formality, something that must be said because it is the night before the battle, but Robin understands. “You don’t have to do this.” The true force of the words is unspoken, but Robin hears her wife’s intended phrase: _You don’t have to leave me._

She takes Severa’s hand and guides her to their shared cot, pulling the younger woman into her lap and holding her close. “You know I must.” Severa twists, adjusting herself so that she’s facing Robin. She buries her foggy eyes in Robin’s shoulder as her arms wrap around Robin’s neck, and the doomed tactician has to stifle a laugh at her wife’s childishness. Slowly, she begins the process of letting Severa’s hair down, a night-time ritual they won’t be performing once the week is over.

“Of course I know, _gawds…_ That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You’re going to be just fine, you know. Your mothers will see to that, as will Gerome. As will Lucina and everybody else.”

“Stop.”

“You’re going to do great things, my love, and you’ll have your friends and Morgan by your side every step of the way.”

“ _Stop it_.”

“You’re going to have everything you ever dreamed of having, and—”

“ _Stop it, Robin!_ ”

Severa leans back just far enough that Robin can see the pain in her eyes, and all Robin can feel is guilt. Even with her hair only half down Severa is enchanting, and the dull ache in her chest reminds Robin that she must take in the sight as well as she can before…before she loses the opportunity for good. Severa’s hands move from around her neck to grip her arms almost too tightly for comfort.

“Severa?”

Robin tastes salt when her wife’s lips meet hers. Severa is too beautiful to do something so ugly as sob, but the heaving of her chest weighs dreadfully on Robin’s own heart. Each gasp is muffled on Robin’s lips, but still each one tears further and further at Robin’s resolve. How can she leave the woman she loves like this? How can she, how can she… _how can she not_? It’s for Severa that she’s willing to throw her own life away; for Severa and Morgan and their uncontestable peace.

“You’re such an idiot!” For somebody who had been crying only seconds before, Severa is strangely composed. There is a fire in her eyes that Robin loves, a determination that could rival Lucina’s own.

“Only for you,” she says, because Severa renders her stupid more than she’d like to admit and she’s running out of time to let her know that.

There’s a brief flicker of amusement on Severa’s face, a cocky, _You know it_ , expression that’s vaguely reminiscent of Cherche; but that’s gone in an instant, replaced with the same fire of which Robin is so fond. “That isn’t funny. Gawds! Why are you telling me all of these things?”

“Because I believe in them. I believe that a beautiful future awaits you once all of this is over.” And she does, she wholeheartedly does.

Severa snorts derisively but there’s no bite in the sound; none of the usual fervour is laced into the expletive that follows. “You really are an idiot sometimes.” Robin doesn’t say anything in response, doesn’t bother to defend herself, because it’s true in a way.

What she doesn’t expect is for Severa to push her weight forward so that Robin is half-resting on the wall of their tent, reclining on the cot as her wife straddles her. She doesn’t know what to expect when Severa’s forehead touches hers and they are so close that she can see each speck of gold in Severa’s amber eyes. “…Sev?”

Severa’s voice is a strangled whisper, and Robin feels guilty for liking the sound as much as she does because Severa’s words are cutting and sad and so honest that she feels she might cry. “Do you really think that I can care for Morgan without you, that I can teach him to be the kind of person we want him to be without you there to help me? Do you really think that I want to go on to do great things, that any of that will matter if I don’t have you to share it with? Do you really think that I’ll even _want_ anything other than to have you back, that any of my old dreams will matter if I lose you?  Do you really think that my life will be beautiful without you in it, that I’ll even be able to appreciate my life if you’re gone and everybody else is living out their happy **endings**?

“Because I can’t raise our son without you; and the thought that I’m going to have to is not something I can face. I can’t even think of doing great things without picturing you at my side. I can’t see myself having everything I’ve ever wanted—and you _know_ how much I’ve wanted in my life—if I don’t have you. I can’t conceive of what my life will be like if you aren’t there living it with me because _you are my life_ , Robin, and if you don’t see that then you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were before.”

She can’t respond, can barely breathe with the weight of Severa’s honesty. The final piece holding Severa’s hair in place falls to the floor with a dull thunk and Severa backs away just slightly, balancing herself along Robin’s hips. “If you leave me, you may as well kill me. There’s nothing left for Morgan and I if you’re gone.”

Robin reaches out to place her hands on Severa’s thighs, anchoring her, keeping them together. “Don’t ever say that…I’m sure Lucina wou—

“Lucina? She _wants_ you to sacrifice yourself. Has she ever asked you _once_ to stay? She doesn’t care; she’d rather you died than have to fight anymore.” Tears return to the corners of Severa’s eyes, stubbornly refusing to fall as if to remain **secret** for just one more second. One more moment.

Robin pulls herself upward just a little, just enough that she can sit more comfortably while still holding on to Severa; the younger woman is her lifeline, her reason for being, her reason for choosing to die. “Don’t say that, my love. Lucina cares for the world just as much as I do, but she wouldn’t send me to my death without remorse, I know. She cares for you too much, for Morgan, for all of us.”

“I don’t care! I don’t—

“Mother? Mom?”

“Son.”

“Morgan.”

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

Morgan’s voice is quieter in the night, softer than the glow of the dying lantern-light. There is a slight touch of pink to his cheeks, an embarrassment that lingers even as his mothers disentangle themselves from each other. Robin pats the cot. There is a space between herself and Severa now, a spot for the boy they love so dearly.

“We were just talking, Son,” says Robin. She doesn’t know why she lies so plainly—Severa’s cheeks are wet, her eyes red, and Robin is sure she is no better—but Morgan does not comment, does not say more in favour of simply allowing himself to fold into his mothers’ embrace.

 

 

They do not move from their shared huddle until it is too late for proper sleep, but a subtle spell gives Severa and Morgan the chance to rest just a while longer. Robin kisses both her boy and her wife as she stands to dress for the day, **armour** enchanted to slip on noiselessly so as not to disturb her sleepers.

 

The sky outside is turbulent and dark, though a glimmer of **sunshine** highlights the sky. It is as good a day as any to die. 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“You will be remembered for this, Robin,” Chrom says as her body begins to fade away. “You will be a **legend**.”

“Take care of my family, Chrom,” she responds, because she does not care to be remembered in such a way. This was never meant to be a ploy for fame; just an honest effort to save a deserving world.

Death is cold, but the sight of Severa standing with her arms around Morgan’s shoulders gives her the last bit of warmth she needs to accept her fate with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody remembers now; nobody can say for certainty how the end of the story of Chrom and his Shepherds goes; around the story of Robin there is even less certainty. Some say that the world forgot its heroes and its heroines, while others believed otherwise.

 

 

Still others claim to know the truth.

 

 

It is said that it was Severa who found Robin lying in a field; an accidental discovery made while she was out celebrating the one **free day** in the busy whirlwind of her life; it is said that the very trees wept with joy at the reunion of the tactician and her wife. It is said that for an entire season all of Ylisse and her allied nations rang bright and clear in celebration.

 

 

 

It is also said that Severa, who had become known in all four corners of the world for her dour nature, was never again seen without a smile on her lips and a woman by  her side.

 

 

 

A woman she called Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and for letting me know what you thought. As crazy and stressed as I get about this sort of thing, I'm glad I participated in FE Femslash Week 2016. In honour of that, I did a silly little thing; feel free to point it out if you caught it!
> 
> And as a side note, to silenciadelumbrae, I had some feels during the writing of today's contribution and then I chickened out and added a happy...ish ending because I couldn't do it and just leave it hanging like normal.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Watching the Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960543) by [WindStainedDreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindStainedDreams/pseuds/WindStainedDreams)




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